


The French Do It With A Press

by Prismatic Bell (Nina_Dances_In_Technicolor)



Category: Bishoujo Senshi Sailor Moon | Pretty Guardian Sailor Moon
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Queer Character, Canon Queer Relationship, Coffee, Communication, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Internal Conflict, M/M, Mornings, Nobody uses "flangst" as a descriptor anymore?, Slice of Life, Some bad language, This is from Classic if you didn't already gather, Zoisite hates mornings, Zoisite hates the world, Zoisite's hair has a mind all its own, bedhead, flangst, implied infidelity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-09
Updated: 2014-08-09
Packaged: 2018-02-12 10:41:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2106723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nina_Dances_In_Technicolor/pseuds/Prismatic%20Bell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zoisite needs caffeine to function. And it helps when someone else is willing to deal with his hair. It leaves him free to focus on the ever-growing anomalies in his life as he hunts out the Rainbow Crystals.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The French Do It With A Press

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sdklr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sdklr/gifts).



> This all started because of a picture on Tumblr of a homicidal Zoisite with crazy hair and when I said he looked like he was on his way to kill Nephrite for fucking with his hair while he was asleep, the lovely artist Soylent_Green went "actually he always looks like this when he wakes up" and drew a body to cover the first body, so he appeared to be in a robe carrying a ridiculous coffee mug (well, ridiculous for Zoisite, Usagi would love it). And then my hands slipped.
> 
> For those of you following along with the bouncing ball, this would be set the day after Zoisite finds the yellow Rainbow Crystal, only to lose it to Ami. (awww, look at that, he gave her a _jewel_. It must be true love.)
> 
> Some notes on Kunzite and Beryl at the end of the fic.
> 
> And finally: you might get the impression Zoisite hates women. That's not entirely true. Zoisite hates pretty much everybody who isn't Kunzite, especially before his morning coffee. It's just that he happens to be surrounded by women, now that all his male coworkers are dead.

Zoisite has never known how to do his own hair.

He's always _had_ hair, enough to be corralled. His mother used to tell him, as she brushed it out and braided it up, that he was born with curls to his shoulders already, and when he'd had five summers and enough of people asking why “she” played swords with the boys he'd made her weep, hacking it all off with a knife in an uneven corona around his head.

Two weeks later, it was back down to his shoulderblades, and the priests of 

( _where?_ ) 

said that he possessed strong magic, and so he was picked off the streets and dropped into the palace to study reading and writing and Alchema Logicales alongside the 

( _who?_ )

before he—

He swings his legs off the bed and winces as he reaches for his robe. Trying to remember much before Beryl called him up as a leader for her army gives him a blinding headache, even when it's not intentional. This morning it is. This morning he's trying to trace a line between those memories of childhood up to the moment he first took a sword in his hand and called out _right flank, to me_ , through the weird and dark muddled mess that's all his memories in between.

And it's all that bitch Mercury's fault.

He didn't recognize her, yesterday. Not at first. He knew who she was, of course, Sailor Mercury, the one who might well drown him if he gave her the chance, he'd seen the images in Beryl's crystal ball. But then she turned her face a certain way, and he retreated so quickly he didn't even entirely realize until later that he could have taken the crystal from her by force. She's just a little thing who still breathes hard when she runs. 

He doesn't _enjoy_ using physical force like Jadeite did, but needs must. 

He spent the night waking up again and again from strange dreams that _almost_ made sense—it's an ancient battle and the players on both sides are back for a second go, of course he recognized her face, he probably saw it in the same position right before he slipped a dagger between her ribs—and yet, in that strange and intangible way dreams so often have, made no sense at all. Why would he dance with a known enemy, even as a gesture of politeness? Zoisite has no need for gestures of politeness, and he wouldn't know how to lead a dance if the fate of the Dark Kingdom depended on it. Why would he stand with his hands behind his back, when at any moment she could choose to attack him? And _why_ , for Metalia's sake, did he dream about her putting his hair up in those ridiculous buns while everyone in the room laughed and a voice he _almost_ remembers says _look at that, you almost can't tell the difference_?

And why does it feel like that, like _remembering_ something, instead of a pile of garbage his brain dredged up to keep him awake?

He hears Kunzite's amused snort as he wanders into the kitchen with his eyes still mostly closed, and raises his middle finger in a wonderfully-expressive gesture he picked up in Europe. Kunzite laughs, and Zoisite winces. 

“Look who's up before last bell,” Kunzite comments, and Zoisite drags a mug out of the cupboard. _Vive La France!_ it says, in hectically cheerful letters, and Zoisite tries to remember _why_ he bought the offensive little thing. Maybe it was one of the things he got to make an apartment barely-inhabitable when he was hunting Silver Crystals in the EU, where price was more important than taste. That sounds about right. Fuck France. Good food, terrible people, and too many unnecessary letters in an alphabet he already has trouble reading. Ugh. “Did the ground crack and swallow us all?”

Zoisite pours himself a cup of coffee without comment. Somewhere in the back of his head that voice maddeningly just out of hearing's reach says _just remember, if we decide we need to invade anyone, ever, for any reason, we can't show up before noon if we want Zoisite with us._ He flicks a hand at his hair in annoyance as another spear of pain lances through his head. Getting up before the sun is for people who aren't Zoisite. It's going to be his biggest hurdle when it comes time to take Beryl's throne. He can kill her and feed her body to Metalia and take her crown for himself, but all it'll take, really, is one late morning and an overbold youma to unseat him. He's going to have to do something about that. After coffee. 

He feels an arm wrap around his waist, and relaxes backward. Whatever strange muddy memories of his past might exist—be they true or false—this is reality: a small kitchen outfitted with a motley conglomeration of appliances from six different countries, the smell of coffee, and large fingers trying to gently untangle the gravity-defying wreath of curls around his face. Most mornings, Zoisite is falling out of bed after Kunzite's already gone, swearing and hunting frantically for a pair of his own gloves and wrangling his hair into something that almost looks like submission as he runs down the hall for the throne room. His usual attempt at fixing his hair involves flyaways and falling-out ponytails that have to be put back up discreetly before he even leaves the throne room. He's thought about leaving it down, but unlike Jadeite with his fine and lank hair and perfect _Nephrite_ with his magazine-model waves, Zoisite's hair is the kind of curly that, left to its own devices, looks like it just took a direct hit from a bolt of lightning. 

He's tried straightening it, but it takes a good five minutes to warm his palms and run them through the forest of curls long enough to create something approximating only-gently-wavy, and he can't wait that long. 

Kunzite leads him back to the table and pats the floor. Zoisite sits, and behind him he feels Kunzite start sifting through the tangle left over from his disturbed sleep. He's not sure where Kunzite learned to braid hair; as long as Zoisite's known him he's always left his hair down. But mornings with Kunzite are a treat worthy of the gods: a cup of coffee to sip while someone _else_ tames the bird's nest on his head, and by the time Kunzite is done separating curls Zoisite's through enough of his coffee to really _appreciate_ that first full run of fingers through his hair. 

“Something's bothering you.”

“Headaches.” 

“Badly?”

“I'm not sure.” He's supposed to go to Metalia when he gets them; she takes care of it, which is really the only reason Zoisite tolerates her. Sit in front of the chunk of molten rock and energy, close your eyes, and some period of time later wake up with no more migraine and the most troublesome questions blown away like smoke. But he doesn't like losing time in an immeasurable way—most especially not after the time Kunzite actually came looking for him and found him staring empty-eyed into the pool where Metalia stays—and he doesn't like the strange feelings in his head later, either, like someone reached into his brain and scooped out something important. He took an assignment in a club in Berlin once that had air so thick with cannabis smoke it turned the lights into a haze, and the way he feels stumbling out of Metalia's chamber after a treatment is much the same way he felt stumbling out of the club, only without any of the fun side effects.

And so if sometimes he pretends he's doing better than he actually is and skips out on Metalia until the nightmares turn into flat-out hallucinations, he's pretty sure nobody can blame him. Kunzite doesn't, at least. Granted, Kunzite is the one who had to put him to bed after the club assignment, so he might, if Zoisite's to be completely fair, be slightly biased. 

Kunzite's hands are perfectly still in his hair, apparently waiting to see if Zoisite can handle twisting and pulling and braiding today, and Zoisite shifts impatiently. Kunzite goes back to combing out the last few tangles, and Zoisite drains what's left in his cup.

“Kunzite,” he says at last, and someday he might get tired of relishing the way the name tastes on his tongue, but today is not that day. “Those girls. The Sailor Senshi.”

“What of them?”

“Did we know them, before?”

Kunzite's hands go still again. Zoisite can hear him sorting through responses in his head—they've been doing this long enough for Zoisite to just _know_ —and he slams the cup on the floor. It shatters on the stone. Good riddance. Vive la cheap ceramic. 

“ _Damn_ it, Kunzite—“ The answer he's going to get is going to be one that's cagey and categorical, put together carefully out of nonsense phrases to please _Beryl_. Zoisite knows how this ends, too. He's been through this waltz before, although he has the strangest feeling Beryl wasn't the third partner. He's the pretty one, the clever one, but a beautiful body and a mouth full of lies are no guarantee of power, and if he can't find the rest of the Rainbow Crystals—find them, take back the ones his enemies have stolen—he knows perfectly well how this dance will end: he'll be standing on the side, watching as Beryl merrily sweeps Kunzite away until there's no more use for him and he gets sealed and tossed away like so much garbage. They both have the same end. Kunzite is just willing to fuck someone on the side to get it, and Zoisite isn't willing to let him.

All the more reason for the obsidian dagger Zoisite has stowed carefully under his side of the bed, really. He's looking forward to the day he sticks it through her wandering jaundiced eyes. 

“Temper,” Kunzite chides, and Zoisite relaxes as Kunzite gathers together all the little flyaway pieces from the sides of his face to tuck into a roll. “In truth . . . I've wondered, too. The blonde one reminded me of someone. Rather broad reasons, I'm afraid. Small. Impatient. No volume control.”

Zoisite flicks him in the knee, but without any real heat. In the summertime, when the Dark Kingdom becomes very decidedly the Light Kingdom for about four months before the sun blessedly decides to set again, Zoisite soaks his hair in lemon juice and works outside until it's a perfect golden blonde. In the winter months it slowly fades back to a dull copper, a color he can only stand because during those wretched months Kunzite occasionally helps him to wash it, and two people in a hot bath during cold months can be very interesting, sometimes.

“Unfair,” he whines. “That's cruel, Kunzite.”

“Truth often is,” Kunzite comments, and Zoisite feels his fingers start to knead through the thick mass of hair, crossing pieces over each other. “You wear it better than she does.”

Zoisite smiles. There was something else he was going to ask, but Kunzite's hands in his hair are better than any trip to the room behind the throne, and so instead he sits quietly and lets Kunzite finish with the loose plait down his back.

“Get some sleep,” Kunzite advises, and Zoisite hauls himself to his feet less gracefully than he'd let most people see. “I'll make your excuses. I expect you up late tonight.”

Zoisite swings the braid over his shoulder to look at it. The very end is small, but where it crosses his shoulder it's as thick as his wrist. “Oh?”

“Mm. Sweep that up before you go back to bed. We don't need you playing chase with cut feet. And for your love, Zoisite, _try_ to pretend you're serious about this. Winners are dedicated.”

“I'm dedicated!” He watches Kunzite step over the broken mug. “Wait til tonight, I'll show you how dedicated I am.”

“I look forward to it,” Kunzite says. Zoisite follows him to the door; it's freezing outside and he's bare under the bathrobe he crawled into when he woke up, but if there's one thing modern humans can do better than his peers, it's microfabrics. “I do enjoy watching you work.”

“ _Work_?” Zoisite blinks at him. Kunzite raises an eyebrow. Zoisite gives him the nastiest look he can muster, one he tries not to use because his mouth turns down and his nose turns up and Nephrite, who can rot with the worms for all Zoisite cares, told him more than once it made him look like a demented rabbit. Kunzite chuckles and taps his nose, and Zoisite drops the look in favor of a wail.

“Kunzite, that's _cruel_!”

“No,” Kunzite tells him. “Cruel would be making you work on no sleep.”

“Give the Queen my regards.”

Kunzite turns around, and for a second Zoisite thinks this is going to be it: this will be the fight he's seen coming for weeks, with Kunzite outside the door and Zoisite in, snow blowing around Kunzite's boots and Zoisite's bare feet.

And then Kunzite kisses his temple and pulls the door shut. Zoisite sighs and pulls the tie out of his hair. It's going to fall out in the bed anyway, and he only has a limited supply. At least he oughtn't wake up later with a mess to put together. Kunzite isn't going to let him off the hook, but Zoisite can make him regret it. 

He does actually remember he needs to sweep up the mug before he falls asleep, but he's already snuggled back beneath the covers. Fuck the mug. He'll get it when he wakes up.

Right after he fixes his hair.

**Author's Note:**

> ON BERYL, ZOISITE, AND KUNZITE: I've thought for years that if Zoisite had actually gotten hold of the Silver Crystal, there's no way in hell he would've handed it over. He was too ambitious, and he would've killed Beryl and taken the throne with Kunzite as his consort or co-king or whatever the hell you might call that. Metalia wouldn't have cared as long as somebody was feeding her. But that kind of blind ambition, especially coupled with him repeatedly breaking orders, doesn't come from nowhere--and since he and Kunzite work as two halves of a whole, it makes sense to assume that Kunzite had similar plans.
> 
> So no, Kunzite would not actually leave Zoisite for Beryl. I'm pretty sure when you're dying you don't scream for someone you were planning on leaving anyway. But would he fake-romance Beryl to get the upper hand? Absolutely. And he'd probably fail to understand why Zoisite is so upset about it, especially seeing that Zoisite was ready to make out with Tuxedo Mask just to get a chance at stabbing the guy.
> 
>  
> 
> Still not convinced I'm insane? You can find me on tumblr at prismatic-bell.tumblr.com.


End file.
